


The Meat Suit

by days4daisy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demonic Possession, M/M, Season/Series 10, Stolen Grace, Tumblr Prompt, Vessels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 09:29:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5200814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Where is Cain?” Castiel demands. He turns around.  It isn’t Crowley. </p><p>No… It is Crowley. His pulsing red eyes, his dragon grin. Scars like tears, chapped lines down his true face. </p><p>But the skin Crowley wears is strange. A tall man. Blonde. Hazel eyes and and a strong chin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Meat Suit

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a Tumblr ask:
> 
> _Crowley is contantly around pretty boys so once in a blue moon he considers slimming down and Cas is personally ofended by that notion. Whenever Crowley "threatens" doing it (and by that I mean wondering out loud), Cas extra grabby for at least a couple of weeks after. One day Crowley is staring at the top of Cas' head which is using him as pillow, and is like, "Is this you trying to tell me you're not fond of the idea?"_

Crowley is above the opinions of others. He is a creature of contempt, twisted and tortured from man into monster. His kingdom sits on a mountain of bones. The remains of his victims rot in cells or shuffle forward. An infinite wait in the hallway of forever.

Fergus is a seed in the belly of the beast. A single flame stoked by whispers of memory. Human blood. His son. And now her. _Mother._ The one who drags a human past to a demon’s present. 'Chunky child,' 'wee sausage.' Insufferable bitch!

Crowley does not care. But the coma patient is tall and strong. He will charm clients and turn a fine soul profit. 

Besides, that old body was growing tired, wasn’t it? A bit soft for Crowley’s tastes. 

*** 

Castiel flicks a lit match into the bowl. A spark ignites. It does not take long. 

Feet plant on the ground behind him. Leather shoes from Crowley’s favorite Italian designer. “Where is Cain?” Castiel demands. He turns around. 

It isn’t Crowley. No… It _is_ Crowley. His pulsing red eyes, his dragon grin. Scars like tears, chapped lines down his true face. 

But the skin Crowley wears is strange. A tall man. Blonde. Hazel eyes and and a strong chin. 

“Come now, sweetheart. We _are_ in flagantre.” Crowley rolls his eyes. “Couldn't you call?” 

“Crowley?” Castiel frowns at the vessel. “What is this?” 

Crowley picks at his suit. All black. Immaculate. “Ah, yes. Just taking the new ride for a spin. Vegetable,” he adds. “About a month left on the books. Shame to waste such a prize, eh?” 

“Where is your other vessel?” 

Crowley shrugs. “Breathing the free air? I don’t care, really. Getting a bit old, that one.” He crosses his arms. “Anything else?” 

“Cain,” Castiel mutters. 

“Haven’t the slightest.” This new vessel dimples when Crowley grins. Castiel looks uneasy, but Crowley ignores him. Crowley has become quite good at ignoring the angel's quirks. “That new grace is holding up nicely,” he remarks.

“Yes,” Castiel mumbles, distracted.

Crowley takes his narrow stare as a sign to approach. He is taller than Castiel’s body now. It is a position Crowley likes. A smirk tips his lips as he cups Castiel’s face. 

When Crowley lowers the head of this new body to kiss Castiel, he stiffens. Only a second of contact. Castiel pushes Crowley off.

Crowley reels back in confusion. His puzzlement quickly frosts to indifference. “Fine,” Crowley grumbles. “Enjoy your search for the Almighty Beekeeper.” With a snort, he disappears. 

*** 

It was a strange encounter, even by Castiel’s always-odd standards. Crowley is more hopeful when Castiel summons him again. 

_Summons_ him. They have sex, for crying out loud. Damn good sex! Would it kill the moron to add Crowley to his contact list? 

Crowley appears at an empty stable. Well, almost empty. Castiel stands before him, angel blade in hand. The edge is bloody, thanks to a dead demon in the center of a devil’s trap. 

Crowley strolls the perimeter of the sigil. “Bit of a rube, this one,” he says. “Dead weight before he was dead.” His gaze flicks back to Castiel. “Next time, I won’t be as forgiving.” 

“This demon spoke of Cain’s whereabouts. Privileged information, he said-” 

“Precaution,” Crowley cuts in. “My subjects know to avoid Cain. That’s what smart creatures do, Castiel. They stay away from the Father of Murder. Unlike you, moron, killing yourself to _find_ him.” 

“Cain may know a cure-” 

“You people and your optimism.” Crowley sighs. “If Cain knew how to rid himself of the Mark, he would have rid himself of the bloody Mark. It’s not that hard, Cas!” 

Castiel grits his teeth. “I want your information.” A stern wrinkle furrows between his eyes. Crowley has always found the look quite fetching.

Crowley shrugs. “Fine. I want a proper screw.” 

“What?” 

“I’m willing to give you another shot,” Crowley says. “Rude, I must say. Dragging me around and putting out nothing in return. But, I think I understand.” He buffs his nails on his shirt. “This vessel is quite charming. Takes some time to get used to, doesn't it?” 

Castiel stays quiet, and Crowley approaches. So far so good. His fingers slide up Castiel’s cheek. Devils, this new vessel’s hand is divine, strong and tan against Castiel’s face. Castiel tenses, but he doesn’t pull away. 

When Crowley kisses Castiel, he receives a warmer reception than last time. Castiel’s lips part to accommodate. They’re getting somewhere! Crowley winds his arms around Castiel. Broad and firm; his angel chose quite the exquisite package.

Castiel touches him in kind, hands on his chest, down to his stomach. His flat, toned stomach. Crowley grins his approval. 

His smile turns slighted when Castiel wrenches out of his arms. “What’s the matter with you!?” Crowley demands. His fury mounts when he reads Castiel's revulsion. A snarl pulls his kitten's pretty wet lips back.

Crowley grabs Castiel by the trench coat. He yanks the angel to him and fixes their mouths together with a growl. It surprises him when Castiel responds without a fight. His hands travel the spine of the new vessel, canvassing his sculpted shoulders. Fingers slide into full, thick hair, just long enough to tangle in and give a satisfying pull. 

Crowley has just begun to enjoy it when Castiel shoves him off again. His disgust is obvious, crossed arms and a scowl. Crowley should rip his face off, ungrateful sod. 

But Castiel’s eyes stop him. Wide blue. Blatant hurt. 

Crowley does not know what to make of this. He gave the damn thing this wondrous new body. Castiel did not even have to ask! For the millionth time, Crowley curses his entanglement with this disaster. 

“We’re done here,” Crowley hisses. He departs without another word. 

*** 

A Brooklyn pub down a flight of metal stairs, black siding with gold script. Wood interiors warmed by candles lit across the bar front.

Peter Stockdale orders a bourbon straight. 

Castiel has learned enough to ask, “Can you recommend a good IPA? … Yes, thank you. I’ll have that.” IPAs seem to make a good impression on male companions. As Castiel’s vessel is male, he finds it important to keep up appearances. 

Also, IPAs tend to have a stronger percentage of alcohol. Castiel, with his dying grace, is more susceptible to the effects. He is also light on funds, so stronger drinks are effective _and_ budget-conscious. 

Inebriation is not Castiel’s goal this evening though. His eyes linger on Peter Stockdale. 

Peter does not speak with a British accent. Castiel hears a faint hint of the Northeast. He was born in Yonkers and moved to the city for work. He’s just come from the Penguin offices in Midtown. How his old job is intact, Castiel can only guess. With demon involvement, it is better not to know. 

They catch eyes for a moment. Castiel takes a quick breath. He covers with a nod and a sip of his beer. Then, he turns away. Humans do not like prolonged eye contact. It makes them wary. Or, as Dean says, “It’s just creepy!”

Peter Stockdale does not wear designer labels. His suit is tailored but wrinkled, a bit old fashioned. Strangest of all, he’s wearing no black. Navy blue slacks and a white dress shirt. His jacket is green, tossed over the back of his bar stool. 

Castiel observes how his body fills his garments. The fabric stretches in a way that some humans might scorn. But Castiel fixates on how his skin fills his clothes. Crowley’s new vessel is nothing like this. It is lanky and drawn in, loose fabric or air where body should be. 

Peter Stockdale's smile is strange too. A warm, friendly tilt and a touch of apology. He moves down the bar to take the seat next to Castiel. 

Castiel clears his throat; he realizes he’s been staring again. “Hello,” he says.

“I saw you at our office earlier.” Peter puts out a hand. “Pete Stockdale.” 

“Jimmy Novak,” Castiel says. “Yes. I was…there about a manuscript.” 

“Good news?”

Castiel chews inside his cheek. “A friendly no and a great deal of encouragement.” He drinks more of his beer to cover his lie. 

He can smell Peter Stockdale’s cologne. Milder than Crowley’s scent, but pleasing. 

All of him is pleasing. This skin stands on its own merit, without the pulsing rage of the demon coursing through it. Castiel hoped to find the opposite to be true, that Peter Stockdale would not matter to him. Just a body, just skin. 

But Peter is not just a body. 

“Sorry to hear that,” Peter says. He sounds so strange, so sincere. Peter taps his glass of bourbon against Castiel’s bottle. “Drain that, Jimmy. I’ll get you something stronger. Not much consolation, but hey.” 

Anxious warmth twists in Castiel’s stomach. “Yes,” he agrees. “I’d like that.” 

He accepts the neat bourbon Peter Stockdale orders for him next. Peter orders himself one too. They clank glasses and drink. 

As Peter speaks about the job, Castiel listens. But his attention strays from the words, drifting into the odd sound of his voice. His accent drags certain vowels, clips different consonants. It is odd. Intriguing. Does Jimmy's body sound different too, with Castiel inside?

“You live around here?” Peter asks. 

Castiel shakes his head. “No. I was in the neighborhood. I saw you come in, and I…came in too.” 

Peter cocks his head. “That so?” 

“Yes.” Castiel looks down at his glass. “You are very attractive,” he says. Peter's eyes narrow. 

Castiel chuckles and drains the remains of his glass. “I don’t want to offend you,” he murmurs. “And I do not expect the feeling to be mutual.” Castiel stands. “Thank you for the drink.” He turns to go.

A hand covers Castiel’s on the bar top. Peter’s mouth curls in a too-familiar grin. 

“Who says it’s not mutual?” he asks. 

*** 

Peter’s apartment is a decent size for his salary. But it is nothing compared to Crowley’s villas and hideaways. Huge penthouse suites and cavernous mansions. 

Castiel enjoys the coziness. Or he would, if he were not enjoying other things more. Hands peeling off his trench coat and suit jacket. Peter laughs through every layer. “You’re quite the gift, all wrapped up.” 

Castiel turns him against a wall. He stands a few inches taller, a height difference he’s missed. Castiel leans down to kiss him and presses their bodies close. Peter’s hips jut against his. His waist is thick, the soft swell of belly under the shirt Castiel rushes to unbutton. 

Castiel releases his mouth. He has to look at him. Peter’s beard rasps against his face, nuzzling until he can bite at Castiel’s ear. Castiel groans under his breath. 

Peter forces his shirt off his shoulders. Castiel pushes his off too. His hands embrace Peter's chest; stocky, thick. Castiel kneads down his sides. The skin dips, pliant, under his hands. Castiel sucks in a breath. 

Peter smirks. “Not kidding when you said you had a thing for me, huh?” 

Castiel shakes his head and lets this human back him to the bed. He lies down and pulls Peter on top of him. It’s not Crowley, but the feel of him… 

It hits Castiel. He craves this skin, maybe loves it in his own way. Of course he does. He’s dying, after all. His stolen grace poisons him by the day. It’s left behind something not angel or man. Something sick; weak and temporary.

Castiel has missed this body. He's missed it so much that his stomach twists, perplexing emotion choking in his throat. His hands shake as they hook into Peter’s back. Soft. Flawed. Familiar. Wonderful. 

“You ok, Jimmy?” Peter asks. 

Castiel smiles up at him. “Yes,” he replies. “Everything is fine.” 

*** 

Castiel sleeps. His dying vessel requires it. He drifts off peacefully, the solid body of Peter Stockdale wound around him.

He wakes far less peacefully, with a hand around his throat. Peter Stockdale’s hand. 

No. Crowley’s. 

It is the literary agent’s body, but his eyes gush red. His clenched, human teeth are almost as impressive as the devil fangs beneath. “You have five seconds to explain this,” Crowley says. Quiet, unlike him.

Castiel blinks away the bleariness of sleep. Five seconds pass. He holds the bloody stare above him. 

“What is this!?” Crowley demands. The hand around Castiel’s throat tightens. 

Castiel sighs. His fingers splay across Crowley’s sides. He kneads into flesh still bruised by last night’s affection. His hands trail down to the bed sheet, the swell of Crowley’s ass covered by the thin layer. Castiel squeezes and sighs again. His own body arches its approval. 

Crowley's rage stills, replaced by confusion. “You came for the body.” 

“Yes.” 

Crowley cocks his head. “You…dislike the other vessel.” He releases his grip on Castiel’s throat.

“Yes.” 

Crowley’s frown deepens. “That makes no sense!” 

Castiel’s hands wander into the small of his back. That beautiful dip. Soft, familiar. Thick thighs straddle his waist, the broad chest rising and falling over his. Castiel shifts towards the sturdiness above him.

Crowley’s eyes widen, momentarily speechless. 

But the surprise is brief, replaced by a shrug. Crowley lays more of his weight on top of Castiel. His tongue drags, hot, up the throat abused by his grip. Castiel groans and tips his head back, neck extended, tight and vulnerable. 

Crowley chuckles. “You’re an odd thing, know that?” 

Castiel closes his eyes. “Don’t mock me.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Crowley’s gaze blazes above him. “But I _will_ remind you that you’re mine, angel. In whatever vessel I choose.”

Castiel, about to balk, tastes tongue before he can. A practiced nudge of his lips that he offers permission to gladly. Crowley can have his mouth. As long as Castiel can have the rest.

“Mine,” Crowley repeats. 

Castiel should protest. But his answering groan doesn’t sound like an objection. Crowley smirks; he doesn't take it like one. 

*The End*

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm also on [Tumblr](http://daisy4days.tumblr.com) :)


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